Chapter 2
Ella
Every morning, I walk the same route to the bakery.
Down the block, past the corner florist that never opens on time, and then by the little bus stop across from the pier.
I always slow down there, not for the bus, but for the view.
The water is calm this time of day, and the boards along the pier are still empty before the tourists arrive.
When the fair rolls into town once a year, the whole place lights up.
From my spot on the sidewalk, I can see the Ferris wheel rising behind the trees, and for a second, I always feel stupidly lucky that Cup the list goes on.
He was great until I saw the tan line on his ring finger.
Ashton says, winking, "I’m officially invested in this meet-cute."
I snort. "Maybe this time it won’t end with me needing a restraining order. Why are normal men so hard to find?”
"Ah, restraining orders. I forgot you had to get one of those after the foot fetish dude wouldn’t stop following you. Honestly, I have a good feeling about this one, though.” She whispers under her breath, “Nathan Reign…Ella Reign…”
“That has a ring to it.”
I shake my head but can’t help smiling. Ashton’s like family, part-time bakery genius, full-time chaos engine, and a future lawyer who’s going to wreck every courtroom she steps into.
Hearing about her arguments with professors already gives me chills.
Imagine her doing it for a living; she’ll be a terrifying force.
“So,” Ashton says, leaning on the counter, eyes way too interested, “remind me what he looks like again.”
I roll my eyes. “He looks like a man.”
“Helpful,” she says dryly. “How tall?”
“I don’t know. Tall.”
“Define tall.”
I think about it. “I didn’t bring a measuring tape, Ashton. Maybe… six-four?”
Her brows lift. “Oh. That’s a very specific ‘I don’t know.’”
“It’s a guess.”
“Uh-huh. Eyes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ella.”
“I wasn’t taking notes.”
“If someone put a gun to your head and made you name his eye color.”
I sigh. “Brown.”
She smiles slowly. “So you do know.”
“Facial hair?” she presses.
“Thick stubble.”
“Tattoos?”
“Yes.”
She leans back, victorious. “HA! You know everything about him.”
“I know some things,” I argue. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you noticed,” she says gently.
I open my mouth to protest, then close it. “I don’t know what it means,” I admit. “I just know he’s the kind of attractive that makes you forget how to breathe and then get mad about it later.”
Ashton hums. “How rude of him.”
“Deeply.”
“Oh, no! I totally forgot to prep the catering orders for this morning.”
Ashton snaps her fingers. “Already done!”
“I knew I hired you for a reason.”
She scowls. “I’m family, and I’m a poor college student; you had no choice but to hire me.”
“I was getting tired of the begging.” I laugh. “Okay, enough about my tragic love life and near-death experience. Was it busy this morning?”
She points proudly at the nearly empty display case. "Sold out of cinnamon rolls by eight. Cupcakes and the new walnut chocolate chip cookies are flying too."
"It’s the maple syrup glaze," I say knowingly.
"It’s always the syrup," she agrees.
We’re still laughing when the bell over the door jingles again.
I turn, smile ready, only to spot a guy in a fisherman’s hat slipping into the back booth by the window. He hunches down in the seat and takes furtive glances around the shop as if to see if anyone has noticed him.
Odd.
He pulls the hat lower and turns to stare out into the rain.
Before I can think much about it, the bakery fills with noise, a family of six floods in, four kids plastering their fingerprints all over the glass display.
I love it.
Their excitement, their noise, their sheer chaos...it’s one of the main reasons why Cup & Cake exists in the first place. To be a warm place when the world feels cold.
The next few hours fly by in a blur of coffee orders, cupcake frosting, and giggling customers.
When I finally glance back at the booth near the window, the man in the fisherman’s hat is gone.
Strange. I wonder if he was supposed to meet someone. I make a mental note to ask Ashton whether he ordered anything or just lingered. I don’t have time to dwell on it when more customers walk in.
By three o'clock, I'm finally in my office, surrounded by order sheets and invoices.
I lean back, stretch my aching arms, and smile at the little sticky note taped to my computer screen.
A reminder that even small, silly dreams matter.
I’ve been applying to conservation programs since college.
Sea turtles. Wildlife rehab centers. Elephant projects. Big cat sanctuaries. Anything that would let me help something that couldn’t protect itself.
Sometimes I got polite rejections. Sometimes I got waitlisted. Sometimes I never heard back at all.
After a while, I stopped telling people I was applying. It was easier that way.
But the big cat programs were always the ones I wanted most. Lions. Cheetahs. Rescues. Sanctuaries. Places where the work was quiet and unglamorous and necessary.
I told myself that rescuing Dr. Doom, taking care of strays, and doing what I could here was enough.
Most days, it is.
But every year, I still fill out the applications.
Just in case.
Moments later, I step out from the back with a towel still draped over my shoulder and freeze when I see a box on the counter. It’s a full case of honey jars, neatly stacked, the tops still glistening.
Ashton leans against the register, sipping her iced latte.
I lift a brow. “Scarlett was here?”
She nods. “Yeah. Slid in like a ninja and dropped that off while you were in the back.”
I frown. “I didn’t even hear the bell.”
Ashton says, “Yeah, she’s a sneaky one.”
I glance at the box again, then toward the door. “She seems… good lately. Don’t you think?”
Ashton tilts her head. “Actually, yeah. Lighter. Happier.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’ve noticed it too. I wonder why.”
I watch the door a second longer than I mean to. “Maybe she finally got past that messy divorce,” I say.
My cousin Scarlett has always been kind. Just… quieter than most. For a long time, it felt like she was carrying something heavy.
Lately, she isn’t. Whatever changed, I’m happy for her.
“Whatever it is,” Ashton says, “it suits her.”
I notice the side of the box.
The word HONEY is written on it in crayon. Big, uneven letters.
I stop for a moment, then smile.
That’s new.
At closing time, the bakery always has leftovers at the end of the day. Croissants that lost their shine, muffins that nobody chose, bagels that had gone cold. Most places probably just tossed them. But I never can.
The streets are damp as I carry a box in one arm with a sticky note on it, and in my messy handwriting, it reads:
Life is full of second chances.
I spot a homeless man sitting on the corner, hunched over.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He looks up, confused.
When I hand it over to him, he blinks for a few seconds like he doesn’t understand. Then he smiles, toothy and shy, like he hasn’t had much practice, and it feels funny on his face.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough, but his eyes soft. “Most people just walk by.”
I shrug, embarrassed by how much it means for him that someone even notices.
He chuckles, clutching the box like it’s a national treasure. I turn on my heel and start walking back toward the front when he calls out. “What’s your name?” I laugh and quickly yell back. “Ella!” He points his hand down at his chest. “Larry!”
“Nice to meet you, Larry,” I call back. “Have a good day.”
Some people save lives, others put out fires or teach small minds—I bake, and I do what I can, and I’m reminded that even flour, however messy, can make a difference.
I tell myself it’s enough.
It’s not, though.
Because life is supposed to be shared, just like food is supposed to be consumed. I shove the thought of loneliness back down and open the door to my condo.
Another day, another elevator ride.
Another possible opportunity.